by Henry James
Charles stared at Gaston’s dilated pupils. He didn’t believe Nicholson for one minute; all right, the meat cleavers may have their fingerprints all over them, but Nicholson wouldn’t settle for that – why would he? No, those ‘dabs’ would still be all over those handles with him and Gaston dead and out of the way, and not mincing about and disputing their participation in slicing up the big man.
‘Agreed. We will pay you once the painting is sold on the black market.’
‘I want two fifty thou – regardless of what you get for it. And don’t think you two can stiff me and scarper across the Channel; I have friends in high places – Interpol will have your ugly mugs postered all over the Metro before you can say, Claude’s your uncle. I’ll be round your gaff in an hour to go over the small print.’
‘Well?’ Gaston looked at him expectantly as he replaced the receiver.
‘He’ll be here in an hour.’
‘He’s a psycho.’ Gaston tapped the side of his head. ‘He’ll kill us; you know that. Call the policeman back – fob that madman off, appear cooperative, then let’s get the hell out of here before he turns up.’
Madman was right. Nicholson, having flipped out at seeing the reservoir cordoned off the previous evening, had had the four of them lug Palmer’s dismembered corpse just a short way into Denton Woods before he decided to simply toss the remains into the darkness. Yes, it was only a matter of hours before they were discovered. What Nicholson had done with the meat cleavers was of much more concern.
‘Yes, I shall call the police now.’ Charles agreed it was best to appear cooperative from the outset. ‘Be ready to leave … We have everything?’
‘Oui, the Citroën is carefully loaded,’ he said quickly, meaning the Stubbs was secure. They must get away without further delay, given what they had witnessed the night before. Though was ‘witness’ the correct word? ‘Accomplice’ would be more accurate in the eyes of the law, and should they ever breathe a word to anyone, Nicholson would corroborate their involvement though conveniently omitting the fact there was a gun to their heads at the time.
Charles picked up the telephone receiver and dialled.
‘Hello, may I speak with Detective Hanlon? My name is Charles Pierrejean.’
He smiled across at Gaston, with as much confidence as he could muster. He shivered at the chill in the empty attic.
‘Good morning, Mr Pierrejean. Thank you for calling.’
‘How may I be of service? I understand you called in.’
‘We are making routine enquires – nothing to worry about. Would you mind popping into Eagle Lane police station?’
‘I am afraid I have a very important business meeting scheduled, is it not something I can do over the phone?’
‘I’m sure that will be fine.’ A long pause ensued. Then: ‘May I enquire what your connection is with Mr Palmer?’
‘Most certainly – I am an antiques dealer. Mr Palmer is a collector.’
‘What does he collect, anything in particular?’
‘Yes, Mr Palmer has a fascinating collection of weapons.’
Frost tossed his promotion letter on to a heap of paper in the corner of his office. Promotion? He’d never given it much thought, and was reluctant to give it any serious consideration now – whichever way one looked at it, the move up was bound to be a double-edged sword. Politics came with promotion, that much he knew, and that was a game he could never play. The extra few bob meant nothing either; what with Mary no longer around to suck it out of him, what need did he have for money? The occasional history book and a takeaway from the Jade Rabbit or Denton Tandoori was all he needed money for … He flopped down at his desk and pulled off a Post-it note from the blank computer screen. Frost had decided that the main purpose served by the new computer equipment was as a noticeboard; his screen was littered with half a dozen messages. Some in his own hand. One said Solicitors Tues 10.15. Flaming heck, he muttered – Mary’s will. He looked at his wristwatch – he could still make it.
‘Congrats, Jack. Well overdue.’
‘Eh?’ Frost looked up. ‘Hello, Arthur, old son. How you feeling?’
‘Still a bit off, but OK … So it’s Detective Inspector at last, eh?’ Hanlon smiled warmly, making himself comfy in the visitor’s chair of the cramped office. ‘Would love to have seen Mullett deliver that one – did you know it was coming?’
Frost lit a cigarette, and rubbed his cheek – Mullett’s mention of his beard had caused him to become preoccupied with it, and it was irritating the hell out of him. ‘Promotion? No idea whatsoever. Hard to believe, but I’m not his favourite in CID, Arthur.’
‘That you’re not; but it’s long overdue – well done him, I say, for finally recognizing what was rightfully yours.’
‘I don’t know about that – call me cynical, but I just can’t imagine Hornrim Harry sitting in his lair thinking that. Anyway, what you got?’
‘Got hold of the French chap. He called up.’
‘Good. And what did he say?’ Frost had all but forgotten about the Frenchman entangled with Daley, so much had taken place in the last twenty-four hours.
‘You were right.’ Hanlon pulled from his pocket a squashed pasty and started delicately tearing the packaging.
‘Right about what?’
‘We did meet him at your missus’s funeral.’ He took a bite. ‘We had a right natter now I remember, about the footie …’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s fanny about the flaming football, where the hell was he on Saturday night?’ Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise he’d been promoted after all, Frost thought, given the dimwits surrounding him.
‘Where you said – at Palmer’s for dinner. With the girl.’
‘Right. Has he made a statement?’
‘No, he had business to attend to. He’ll be in tomorrow.’
‘Good, make sure he is – I want a chat about something else too. But that can wait. There’s enough going on for now but we’ll need a statement at some point. Now give me a bite of that. Daley was seen collecting her motor near mine, and we have the weapon, though where she picked up that antique bayonet God alone knows – she won’t say a word.’ Frost passed the pasty back.
‘Palmer’s, I’d guess.’
‘What?’
‘The French gent said Pumpy collects antique weapons.’
‘Are you sure?’ Frost said, surprised. ‘I thought his interest was strictly shotguns and the like?’
‘That’s what he said,’ Hanlon said confidently.
Frost sat back in astonishment. ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you say so? Obviously Daley snatched it from there, meaning she was where she says she was; and Palmer does know her.’
‘Week’s shaping up pretty well,’ said Waters, rubbing his hands together as he entered the CID general office. Clarke trailed behind him, head down. ‘What next, Inspector?’ Waters added, giving him a mock salute.
‘Don’t you start.’ Frost cuffed him round the back of the head. ‘Windley banged up?’ he said, addressing nobody in particular.
‘Tried to do a runner – but Ms Clarke here wrestled him to the ground.’ Waters beamed.
‘Really?’ Frost raised an eyebrow at Clarke, looking trim in a tight trouser suit, but she didn’t wear the demeanour of a victor. ‘You’re right, John, with a clean-up rate like this, we’ll be able to take the rest of the week off.’ The phone interrupted Frost with what seemed like intent. ‘Frost here.’ A young Forensics officer informed him that the lead bullet deposited at the lab earlier that morning did not match Louise Daley’s gun. ‘You’re sure?’
‘The striation marks aren’t consistent with the barrel,’ the young man replied.
Frost hung up the phone. ‘The lead found at the payroll robbery doesn’t match the gun found in Daley’s car.’
‘You didn’t think it was her, did you, Jack?’ Waters said.
‘I did at first,’ Frost confessed, ‘but then I started to have doubts. This confirms it.’
> ‘Something else is odd,’ Clarke announced abruptly, closing her notebook.
Frost looked over at her. ‘Yes?’
‘You know you told me to check in on Paul Game’s wife? The man we fished out in pieces from the reservoir yesterday.’
‘Yes, love, it was only this morning.’
‘He’s not married.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Frost said quickly.
‘I said, he’s not married – there is no wife,’ Clarke repeated.
‘But Rimmington police said it was his wife who reported him missing,’ Frost said, incredulous.
‘Yes, it is what they said – I just checked my notes.’
‘You must have the wrong Game.’
‘There were only two in the phone book.’
‘Jesus!’ Frost cursed. ‘I didn’t say take the telephone directory as gospel – he might be ex-directory.’
‘I have the right man, Jack.’ The colour started to rise in Clarke’s cheeks. ‘Stop snapping at me and hear me out, will you?’ she stormed.
Frost backed down. ‘All right, all right. Tell me.’
‘There were two Games in the phone book. One of them P. Address: 15a Beasley Street, a nice row of modern terraced houses in Rimmington. No answer when I knocked, so I knocked all the harder – having hiked all the way over there. A housewife eventually poked her head out from next door to see what the commotion was. She confirmed that our Game lived there – or had – a blond bachelor in his twenties. And that she’d not seen him in nearly a fortnight, but didn’t think it strange, assumed he was on holiday and had forgotten to cancel the milk. Confirmed he was an accountant, and that he played competitive snooker.’
‘Right,’ said Frost. ‘Let’s recap the call you picked up last night; what exactly did this helpful desk sergeant say?’
‘He said that Game’s wife had reported him missing a week ago – last Monday – but the records were all over the place due to their computerization. He’d been missing a few days, but she didn’t get concerned until the weekend because of some snooker tournament.’ This was exactly as she’d told him not two hours ago. Somebody was feeding them information: Frost knew of such instances where one police division would slip the neighbouring force a suspect. Usually, the suspect would have had dubious connections with the local plod, but for some reason the relationship had soured and the police wanted to sever the connection and have their man dealt with at arm’s length. Clarke’s call smacked of this; the only problem was the name they’d slipped them was a dead man’s.
‘And what was the desk sergeant’s name?’ Frost asked.
‘He didn’t give his name.’
‘You didn’t take his name?’ Frost quizzed, annoyed.
Clarke ignored him.
‘What do you think?’ Frost shot a look at Waters.
‘Something ain’t right. That’s for sure.’
‘Somebody wanted us to know jigsaw man’s identity – but probably not the Rimmington desk sergeant—’
‘Just a second,’ Clarke snapped defensively. ‘He knew that Simms had called last week, and was aware of the computerization – he had to be a copper.’
‘I don’t doubt he was a copper, but probably not who he claimed to be,’ Frost said. ‘Or perhaps the desk sergeant was just the messenger boy. But there’s more to it than that – they’ve identified the body, but fed us duff information too—’
‘Disinformation, like the KGB,’ Waters interrupted, ‘telling you something that’s true – that a man is missing – and something that’s not true, that the man is married and his wife reported him missing. Easy enough to verify: the man who told you the lie about the wife knew you would find out immediately.’
‘Why?’ Clarke frowned. ‘I don’t get it. I know Brezhnev just died, but stop me if I’m wrong, I didn’t think the new guy in the Kremlin had extended the Cold War to Denton?’ She went to pick up the phone.
Frost placed his hand over hers, preventing her from picking up the receiver. ‘There’s no point phoning Rimmington – what else did they tell you?’
‘Jack’s right,’ Waters said. ‘What else did he say? There’ll be a meaning to everything.’
‘That Game played snooker at the Dirty Penguin.’
‘Right you two, get over to the Penguin. Check with the club records – find out when Game last played there. And give Palmer a slap – he still hasn’t returned our calls.’
‘Are you going to call Kelsey?’ Waters asked.
If anyone knew what lay behind the mystery of Game’s disappearance, it would be him. Frost recalled the Rimmington superintendent telephoning the evening after Baskin got shot. Was there more to that call than met the eye? Nevertheless, calling Kelsey would be easy and something Frost wasn’t prepared to do just yet. Not until he knew more, rather than be at the mercy of the senior man at Rimmington.
‘No.’ Frost pulled his mac from the back of the chair.
‘Where are you going, then?’ Clarke asked.
‘Solicitors. Should have been there ten minutes ago.’
Tuesday (3)
Mullett’s office door opened and in slouched the heavy figure of Detective Constable Arthur Hanlon. The station superintendent sighed; he didn’t have time for this nonsense, he really didn’t. He had the press conference at noon. He gestured to Hanlon to take a seat.
Mullett had pondered the importance of a Masonic connection long and hard; and if honest with himself, he’d lost more sleep over this issue than anything else. Neither Frost’s promotion, nor even the remote (and he had convinced himself it was remote) possibility that his wife had knocked down a paperboy had troubled him as much. Joining the Masons seemed vital to entering the higher Denton echelons, but as soon as Hanlon came into view, Mullett’s sense of propriety was confounded: that such a sad, even laughable specimen of a detective could hold a position of power in any organization seemed immoral and blatantly unfair. No, Mullett decided, he was not going to put Bill Wells forward for promotion, as Hanlon proposed, to unlock the door to a secret society – he couldn’t live with compromise of this magnitude. If, of course, Mrs M found herself in difficulty with a driving offence and help was required then he might reconsider, but for now the disservice to the force was too great a burden.
‘Funny you calling me in – I was hoping we might get a moment.’
‘Were you indeed?’ Mullett smiled through gritted teeth at the puffed-up detective. The use of we grated like fingernails down a chalkboard. ‘Now look – I’ve given this an incredible amount of thought, but—’
Hanlon held up his hand and looked to the door, to ensure that they wouldn’t be taken by surprise. ‘Say no more, Super,’ he said, leaning forward.
‘I’m sorry?’ Mullett frowned.
‘You’re in,’ Hanlon said in a whisper.
‘“In”?’
Hanlon tapped the side of his nose, then sat back in the visitor’s chair. ‘Yes – promoting Jack.’ He beamed. ‘It’s all about helping your mates – it was beyond our wildest dreams you’d give Jack a leg up, so we thought we’d work you for Bill Wells, instead. Welcome aboard.’
Hanlon offered his hand, which Mullett took, speechless.
Frost turned his back on the grubby solicitors’ office just off Market Square, and on the Simpson family, who wandered down the cobbled street in the opposite direction. When would he next see them, he wondered, if ever? Not that he cared, given the news he’d just received. Bastards – the whole lot of them. Still, he wasn’t going to dwell on that problem just yet.
He lit a cigarette and instead thought about the jigsaw man case and the connection to Rimmington station. A dead accountant found in a reservoir, and the only thing they knew about him was he played snooker at the Dirty Penguin. That snippet of real information had been fed to them along with the misinformation that the man was married – therefore Frost reasoned that the Penguin itself must be significant. What vital clue was he missing? Palmer and the Penguin … Palmer also
knew the woman who had shot Harry Baskin. What was Harry Baskin mixed up in? Baskin had dismissed any likelihood that Palmer would shoot him – not that sort of man, and so on – but everything was starting to point that way because of the Daley–Palmer connection. Which meant what? They’d underestimated Palmer? Frost had already told Waters to put pressure on Palmer – for harbouring Daley, a wanted criminal – now they’d really have to squeeze him for all he was worth. And he’d have to see Harry again as soon as possible.
Clarke looked abstractedly around at the opulent surroundings while Waters waited patiently for Nicholson to get off the telephone. They were, he assumed, in Palmer’s office. These guys were a cut above Baskin and his mob. And the Penguin was somewhat posher than the snooker halls Waters was used to in London’s East End.
Palmer was still apparently absent and Nicholson, his real number two, was in his boss’s chair. Nicholson, a lean, hard-faced man, was a familiar type to Waters, a cool customer who seldom spoke, and tough. Frost hadn’t liked him from the start, and Waters could understand why – he was in a different league to the usual Denton no-goods. Frost was reserved when faced with the unfamiliar.
‘I’m sorry about that.’ Nicholson replaced the receiver. ‘Business. You after Marty?’
Waters nodded.
‘Me too,’ he said, spreading paperwork across the desk, whether to signal the end of the conversation or to affect non-chalance, Waters wasn’t sure. Nicholson sipped from a glass of water, then after a silence added, ‘May I ask what you want with him? Maybe I can help?’
‘This Palmer’s office?’ Waters asked, ignoring the question.
‘Yes.’ He joined his hands in a priest-like manner, as if waiting patiently.
‘He mind you going through his drawers?’
Nicholson removed his glasses. ‘The business has to run. With Mr Palmer unaccounted for, I have no alternative.’ He said it slowly, with a flicker of what might have been a smile.
